Sunday, December 29, 2013

“I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills. …
Up in this high air you breathed easily, drawing in a vital assurance and
lightness of heart. In the highlands you woke up in the morning and thought:
Here I am, where I ought to be.” Karen Blixen’s book Out of Africa is a
true memoir in that she wrote it after the coffee farm she managed in Kenya for
17 years had failed. In the dark atmosphere hanging over Europe in 1936, she
wrote from her family home at Rungsted, Denmark, looking back and distilling
her love for the life she had lived in the high country in Kenya.

Isak Dinesen, is the pen name of Karen Dinesen von
Blixen-Finecke, who lived and wrote from 1885 to 1962. She went to Africa with
her husband, Bror, described by Beryl Markham as “six feet of amiable Swede
and, to my knowledge, the toughest, most durable White Hunter ever to snicker
at the fanfare of safari or to shoot a charging buffalo between the eyes while
debating whether his sundown drink will be gin or whiskey.” When Karen and Bror
separated, Karen was left to manage the farm, which was really too high up for
growing coffee. There was little rain and coffee prices fell. Karen Blixen
could not imagine leaving and fought it as long as she could.

Out of Africa is filled with vivid descriptions of
the things that happened on the coffee farm and the people who worked there:
her manager the Somali Farah, her Kikuyu cook Kamante, and Pooran Singh who
worked the forge. She writes of her friends Denys Finch-Hatton and Berkeley
Cole who came out to dine and listen to music. Though many assume Blixen was in
love with Denys, she does not make much of this in the book. When they have a
hunting adventure together she writes, “we were too wet, and too dirty with mud
and blood to sit down to it, but stood up before a flaming fire in the dining
room and drank our live, singing wine up quickly. We did not speak one word. In
our hunt we had been a unity and we had nothing to say to one another.”

Blixen wrote in English, the language she used in her years
in Kenya. It was her second language and even now, when I read Out of Africa,
the slightly unfamiliar use of English, as if she were rolling the words over
on her tongue, tasting and smelling them, makes me want to read them aloud. I
first read the incantatory sentences at the beginning of this essay when I was
16. I had always been a reader, but these unforgettable words convinced me that
real people, writing in our day could create of their own lives sentences which
lifted those who heard them into a profound acceptance of the real.

Blixen saw herself as a story teller. She sat writing in the
silence at the end of the day, far from home, writing stories to keep herself from
anxiety, to regale her friends when they arrived. I am not as interested in the
many stories she wrote, in which artifice rules. She let some of them get away
from her, stories of romance and illusion. In Out of Africa Blixen
restrained her writing to what she was sure of, to what she saw and heard and
felt. The combination of a romantic nature steeling itself to realism is
profound and makes for greatness.

Blixen lived during a time when imperialism in Africa was
still very much alive. I was interested to find this critique of her by a young
British woman, Esther Poyer, a raw food enthusiast and life coach. Esther
visits Karen Blixen’s house, now a museum in the suburbs of Nairobi. She asks why anyone should be interested in Blixen. I can
understand this. But allowing for her historical period, I find Karen Blixen a
woman who loved deeply and did the best she could with her circumstances,
spilling out her passion in shimmering sentences which live long after her.

Monday, December 16, 2013

In My Antonia, published in 1918, Willa Cather tells
the story of Antonia, based on Annie Pavelka, a friend she grew up with in
Nebraska. As a child, Antonia comes from Bohemia to Nebraska with her family,
the favorite of her cultured father. Before he dies, Antonia’s father asks Jim
in broken English to “teach my Antonia.” Jim watches Antonia’s hard life as she
works in the fields on land which has never been broken. But her brother’s
abuse, her mother’s whining and her own disgrace do not dishearten Antonia or
quench her spirit.

Jim finds Antonia and her Scandinavian immigrant friends
much more lively than the young people in his town who go to the “correct”
social club. The immigrant girls may be rougher, work hard in the fields, but
they have a directness, joy and physicality denied the tamer, more cultured
girls of his town.

Jim does as he is told, studies hard and goes east to become
a lawyer. He prospers, but success in the great world doesn’t make him happy.
He marries someone uncongenial and finds himself traveling a lot. On one of his
trips he returns to Nebraska.

Pavelka Farmstead

Though Antonia still has a difficult life as her husband
knows little about farming, she is surrounded by her children. Jim feels he has
come home. He has found no one in the world of culture whose spirit surpasses that
of Antonia. Whatever else has gone, she has not lost the “fire of life.” Her
friend Lena, who also attracts Jim, retains the lazy sensuous manner she
always had, parlaying it into a successful business in San Francisco.

Reading My Antonia is to go back to a refreshing
discussion of values. It is what good literature offers. The book sifts
pastoral values against more urban ones. These alternating values, according to Karen Armstrong, have contended with each other for centuries. Setting nature beside artifice, Jim chooses nature.
Physicality is part of it. The town girls he knows aren’t allowed to move! But
Jim also sees in Antonia the finer feelings shown by her European father, who
could not survive on the rough prairie: delight in music and dancing,
conversation and friendship.

I love the book because Cather’s values,
represented by the narrator Jim, are my own. In this country, the whiff of
commerce hangs around art, but walking out under the sky, under the trees and
enjoying the sun give one freedom.

The immigrant girls described by Willa Cather were more my
sisters than my mentors. One of my grandfathers lived in a sod house until he
was ten. My great-grandmother had been a hired girl in Norway. That women can
be independent and hardworking and still be attractive was not something I
needed to learn. Growing up I saw many fine partnerships between married
people, including that of my parents. Thus the pastoral values Cather
celebrates in My Antonia were more a confirmation than anything new and strange. Many of the women I found to educate myself in the feminine were from
other countries, exotic to me. Antonia feels like home.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The concept of yin (female) and yang (male) making up a
whole is ancient. Karen Armstrong suggests that it may come from the way people
lived thousands of years ago in China. Planting and harvest were conducted in
the sun when men were most active, and winter was the yin period, when women
spent time weaving, spinning and making wine.

The United States, as an immigrant, westward-moving, pioneer
nation has valued the yang element in our natures so highly that I believe the
yin element, particularly its power, has been little understood. In China, the
“valley spirit,” water, with its gentle power to float an egg on its surface or
huge container ships, is seen as yin.

“Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water.

Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can
surpass it.”

The Tao Te Ching: Chapter 78 - 6th Century B.C.E.

As Peter Matthiessen relates in The Snow Leopard, the
record of the trip he made into the Himalayas in 1973, he was often cheered in
the bitter weather and difficult mountain conditions by the women he sees. The
merry young Tende Samnug in a red woolen hat and small bells at her sash
carries her baby, Chiring Lamo, on her back through the deep snows and secretly
gives him a gift of potatoes. Glimpses of women lighted up this adventure story
for me too. Knowing this mother and her baby were real people, I sometimes
speculated as I read what they might be doing now.

In late November Matthiessen hiked out of the Dolpo region
of Nepal into the village of Rohagaon. One of his guides makes a place for him
at a family hearth where he watches “cooking rites so simple and certain in
their movements that I sit marveling upon my goat skin, scarcely breathing …
The cooking is done by the woman in black rags while [her husband] lies
glowering against the wall; the slow deft handling of burning twigs as tsampa
and dried pumpkin squash are cooked on a brazier, the breadmaking, the
murmuring, the love and food extended to the children without waste words or
motion, the tenderness toward the sick husband – all has the pace and dignity
of sacrament.”

The picture Matthiessen paints mesmerized me. Few of us go
about our household tasks thinking of them as sacrament, but of course they
are. Repetition and habit make the food gathering, preparation and setting out
of meals to be shared into ritual. We clean house, wash clothes and linens
almost daily. The yin-oriented tasks of the private sphere are generally the
responsibility of women. And the atmosphere of our homes is set by the cheerfulness,
dignity and peace we bring to them.

The Western corporate world has seized upon home-making as
an area to be despised, to be filled with labor-saving devices which conscript
us into consuming. But when we lose the value for home-making, we lose contact
with real life. We can reclaim this ritual for ourselves by conscious, mindful
work, by using local food that has not been packaged for us, by choosing
carefully the things that surround us, and setting standards of peacefulness
and pride in the families we create.

Yin and yang are constantly and continually seeking
equilibrium and right relationship. No one gets along without them both. One of
our favorite tai chi practices is a series of movements in which, with a
partner, we Listen to the other person’s body, Surrender to their advance,
Transform or turn in relation to them and Push. This series works in many
contexts!

Yin power is that of surrender, of the “valley spirit” which
lies low, taking everything in to its capacious breast. It is the power of
yielding, letting the water of life seek its own level. It is also the power of
listening to our inner selves as well as to others. No one should underestimate
it. I would like to see it more openly understood and valued. Progress,
achievement, competition and dominance have their place, but so has the yin
power of listening, patience, collaboration and respect.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

The main difference between women and men, in my view, is
simply that men are willing to put up with more abstraction than women. Men can
work themselves into boundless philosophic, technological and scientific
ecstasy, leaving their bodies behind. They compete and measure themselves and
each other by abstract measurements women don’t use. They also accomplish and
create things women didn’t know they wanted, such as Skype chats across
continents!

Women hear the call of their bodies, not only on a monthly
basis, but several times a day for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. Women are
profoundly changed by the children they bear and their immediate and intimate
needs. Their attention stretches across generations. The home they
make for their family is real, friends are real and the ceremonies they create
to celebrate life are real, each demanding time and thought.

Language is, of course, an abstraction, which may be one of
the reasons we have heard less from women down through the ages. Claudine
Herrmann writes in The Tongue Snatchers, originally published in French
in 1976, that a “virile” culture pervades the public intellectual and artistic
sphere, that women must use a language they have not developed and learn to restrict
themselves in using. But all of us have experiences which are difficult to put
into words.

Herrmann makes the point that “women’s vision could serve to
shed light on the most varied of questions.” As a lover of language, I agree.
Without the harmonic that women’s voices provide, abstraction becomes a thin
veneer on the rich, inchoate life of culture. In addition, speaking or writing
is one of the ways we seize our humanity, a way we “actualize the sheer passive
givenness of our being,” as Hannah Arendt says.

I know of no better example of women shedding light on
varied questions than the books the scholars Elaine Pagels, Karen Armstrong and
Lesley Hazleton have recently produced. Having absorbed the manuscripts found
at Nag Hammadi and other early texts, Elaine Pagels describes in Beyond
Belief how the early church codified beliefs for the sake of unity. She
insists however that suppressed gospels, such as the Gospel of Thomas, actually
enrich and extend our understanding of Christ’s teachings and the early church,
helping us get past rigid belief structures.

In The Great Transformation: The Beginning of Our
Religious Traditions, Karen Armstrong studies the ways four cultures
contributed to the Axial Age, the name Karl Jaspers gave to the period between
900 B.C. and 200 B.C. Armstrong uses current archaeological, historical and
textual scholarship to show the shift in the ways people thought of themselves,
how the needs for liberation and redemption were awakened. Lesley Hazleton’s
book entitled The First Muslim: The Story of Muhammad tells the dramatic
story of how Muhammad, a young camel
driver at the edges of society, received divine inspiration, came to power as a
political leader and worked toward social justice. Helped greatly by his first
wife, Khadija, I might add.

All three of these women write to help heal the
fragmentation and divisiveness our closely-held religious beliefs have led to,
the sticking points of abstract language. Karen Armstrong believes that at the heart
of all religions, spiritual traditions and ethics lies compassion: Do unto
others as you would have them do to you. Having recently read the three
astonishing books noted, I am thrilled to find mainstream, accessible work
being done in this area. By women!

Since we live in an information age, I am free to write in
this casual way, pointing to what has moved me. And you are free to copy any of
these cues into your favorite search engine and learn more about them.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

In finding my path, I’ve promiscuously sought wisdom among
both men’s and women’s writing. While the brain of humans is wired as
dominantly male or female, part of it is clearly beyond sexual distinction.
Wisdom literature, seeking to tame our unruly selfish instincts into patience,
forbearance and generosity, addresses us at our most common humanity, equally
shared by men and women.

I grew up in a homogenous community, of northern
European origins, the Christian religion and a fairly cohesive post-war sense
of country, the United States. Like others of my generation I set off early to see the world. Determined not to be held back from
anything human, I allowed myself to be quite open, going into free fall
more than once. Luckily, my family was there to pick me up. But crashing and
burning didn’t stop me. Once healthy again, I proceeded outward, my internal
steering mechanisms strengthened.

The fact that I was a young woman had a great deal of
bearing on my adventures. No mountains were involved, except as a metaphor for aspiration. "Everyone has something to do from his or her essential nature," says Rumi (in Coleman Barks' translation). Seeking my place in an expanding and pluralistic world, my love of literature was my guide.

Though I read all over the map, an internal reality detector
served me. Everyone has this. Even if we have been dominated and influenced by
a decadent culture, each of us must accept responsibility for
our thoughts and actions. Sometimes, for safety’s sake we go along with a
prevailing situation. But we hold in our hearts the inner knowledge of what is
good, true and beautiful, and the desire for it. The ground of reality shines through
art, aligning with inner certainty. Literature thus serves, holding up
stories which satisfy and feed the yearning heart. I was moved by many women characters.

This blog records the characters I have learned from. It’s
a mixed group from all over the world, their stories told by both women and men. I’ve
used translations freely as my interests range far afield. I want to give
younger women the gift of these stories. Some women fear passion and certainly
see around them cautionary tales. But
there are also tales of luminous, intense love which lift the characters into
the mythic realms which illuminate everyday life. Each of us
should have such a tale of our own. They point us to our essential nature.

The blog allows me to speak from a feminine point of
view. Claudine Herrmann in The Tongue Snatchers says: “I’ve thought it
useful to show not only how the vision of a woman was different, but also that
this vision could serve to shed light on the most varied of questions.” By most
accounts I am in the afternoon of my life, which gives me the chance to look
back, but also the freedom to speak to many questions. For the afternoons knows
what the morning never suspected, as the Swedish proverb has it.

Since blog entries slide off the page, the intent of each
here is to be synecdoche, the part representing the whole. A brief telling of
the story, pointers for those who are interested in more, and the reason I
loved it. They will be in no particular order.

About Me

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